


47 Days to Change (a translation) - One-shot

by snow_owl01



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mpreg, Rape, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snow_owl01/pseuds/snow_owl01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot in the 47 Days to Change universe, written by the original author, but not as a part of the main plot. SLASH. TR/HP. WARNING: Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Non-Con, Rape, MPreg. Proceed with caution.</p><p>In a future where Voldemort won the war, he kept Harry Potter imprisoned as his pet — as his beautiful prize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	47 Days to Change (a translation) - One-shot

**One Shot**

NOTE: This is a translation of a Chinese HP Fanfiction by  **墨玉绿**

* * *

 **SUMMARY** : This is a one-shot set in the 47 Days to Change universe, written by the original author, but it's NOT a part of the plot. NOR is it indicative of future plot. Basically a fan service chapter (originally Chapter 61).

Pairing: TR/HP ; LV/HP

 **WARNING** : Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Non-Con, Rape, MPeg. Proceed with caution.

**EXTREME MATURE CONTENT. GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF SEX. ENTER AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.**

**Graphic depiction of rape and sex. Maximum angst. Last warning.**

Okay, now you are on your own.

* * *

**May 2003**

Let us predict the future.

Let us theorize about a future where the prophecy between Chosen One and the Dark Lord was erased. A future where both swore enemies survived. A future where the Dark Lord emerged as the victor, where he build a great empire on Dark Arts and pureblood supremacy. A future where the supposed saviour became his prisoner — his prize.

Thus, let us not call the boy  _the_  saviour any longer, because the world had no need for saviours... Although life was still hard, the war had ended and people's lives went on as it once did, resuming with mocking, indifferent normalcy. The world didn't need saving and so... they abandoned him — the saviour — the boy they once dubbed the Chosen One.

 _And God said, Let there be light: and there was light._  Victor Hugo wrote,  _Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise._

But what if the world had no need for light... The citizen of the new empire had already become accustomed to darkness. As darkness and ignorance blessed them, they turned a blind eye and grew more and more dependent on the voice of their Lord. As their senses and morals became less and less attuned, they turned into mole rats of the underground, stumbling around in the dark with only  _his_  voice to lead them.

Willingly, they had abandoned the light.

Who is Harry Potter — if he is no longer the Chosen One, the boy-who-lived, the  _Saviour_?

"My dear, you have lost everything," someone whispered into his ears.

Hot breath brushed against his neck, tickling, tantalizing. The hissing voice was sweet, sympathetic, like the whisper of lovers.

"Today, my loyal Death Eater caught more of your old friends from Dumbledore's Army— One of the chubby boy— What is his name, again?... Longbottom?"

Harry startled at mention of the name, but Tom tugged him back immediately, rough like yanking on the leash of a disobedient dog.

_History is written by the victors. And the light had lost._

_And Tom had won._

The handsome Dark Lord hooked his arms around the saviour's waist. His chest pressed against Harry's back as he trapped the pale young man in a vice-like embrace. He chuckled as if remembering something funny, blowing playful, hot air into Harry's ears. Under the dim light, his perfectly sculpted face was beautiful, but also indescribably cruel.

"Dear Bella even mentioned something about collecting a whole set—"

The sentence sent a jolt through the saviour's body. All blood drained from his face, which made his already pale skin turn into a deathly shade of pallid, and made him look rather like a lifeless, porcelain doll.

 _Collecting a whole set_ — but that mad woman had tortured Neville's parents to insanity.  _What did she meant by a set?_ —did she intent to torture their son too? Holding the boy under the Cruciatus curse until he, too, turned into a puddle of insane babbles and empty thoughts.

Harry stared at the black lake in front of him, green eyes wide with desperation and despair. His jaw muscles was taunt as he tried to stop the tears spilling out of his eyes. Tom was right— tears are useless, meaningless. Tears were no more than salty excretion from the glands of the eye, no more than a biological response.

You may ask— when did the Chosen One grew so weak?

He was supposed to be the fearless hero, the golden lion of Gryffindor. But his spirit had been broken down through years of war and suffering. All that remained of his younger, bright-eyed self were sadness and regret. He was no hero, he was a frightened little bird trapped in a cage, or a lion that had been utterly tamed, declawed, and made a pet.

This shouldn't be the end. This couldn't be it!

Harry Potter was supposed to be the saviour of the wizarding world. His name was synonymous with bravery, heroism, self-sacrifice, and hope... Yet, he had become a slave to the dark. Was this the end?

_All was lost—_

_No, not yet_. He was Harry Potter. No matter happened to his body — his spirit remained the same, with the same courage, stubbornness, compassion, and steely strength. Even if the darkness had managed to conquer his body, he would still fight for what he believed in, for the sake of his friends.

Pointedly ignoring the arms around his waist, Harry turned to face Voldemort.

"Let him go," Harry demanded. Pale lips trembling, but his voice remained resolute, green eyes brighter than all the lights of the world.

Crimson eyes narrowed dangerously.

 _How does he hope to save anyone, when himself is so helpless and powerless?_  Maybe this was the highest form of human spirit — pure altruism in a hopeless world — but the Dark Lord could not be swayed by the young man's defiance, instead it only awoke his sadistic tendencies.

He could feel himself getting hard just thinking about what he could do to the man in exchange for his friend's life.

The Dark Lord always hated the light. He hated all pure souls— those self-righteous fools— such creatures were annoying like the sun, with lights that dazzled his eyes and a warmth that was unobtainable.

He was a creature of the night. His soul was beyond saving — not that he wanted saving, mind you—  _No_ , he only wanted the  _saviour_. He wanted to drag the boy down from his pedestal, and use his own lips to taint him and dirt him,  _to own him_. He was the Dark Lord, a demon who ruled over the darkness, so he must destroy all things light— Harry included.

He would tear away the boy's wings and chain him to his bed, watching as white feathers turn black, as green submit to blood-red. Then, he would have fulfilled his childhood promise— Harry would never think about leaving him again.

_Never again._

In the meantime, he would enjoy breaking him, watching the angel plummet into hell, watching as something so beautiful becomes  _his_.

Just the sight of those defiant green eyes made his blood boil — with anger or lust, he wasn't so sure, but then... it didn't matter. The tall, handsome lord yanked Harry back, his back pressing into his chest. Hot, wet tongue traced the nape of the young man's neck, drawing a shiver from him as Tom left red and lustful marks on his skin.

He chuckled into Harry's ears, a deep throaty laugh, with a measure of threat and unconcealed lust.

"Oh? Let him go?" He mocked. " _So_... _Beg for his life!_ "

Scarlet eyes fixed onto the man in his arms, familiar green eyes, dishevelled black hair. Voldemort's handsome face appeared amused, although his dark magic simmered dangerously.

"If you want me to spare his life, then you know what to do— Just like how I taught you, hmmm? My good sweet boy—or shall I call you—  _father_?"

The mocking title sent shock waves through Harry's body. He shivered as he looked up at the Dark Lord, emerald eyes beautiful with sorrow and shame.  _Father_ — Tom  _never_  called him that. He never returned Harry's respect and love.

Harry's face went blank as he emptied memories from his mind.  _Yes_ , he knew what he must do— the Dark Lord had taught him well. He taught him to forgo honour, to forget shame and self-respect. He trained Harry to use his body like a whore, pleading, begging the Dark Lord with his legs spread wide open.

Harry couldn't even remember when he stopped resisting Tom's control. He had to learn his place. He had learned the tricks for pleasing Tom... He had learned to pay the Dark Lord's price in exchange for what he wants.

Before his mind wandered even farther, he spun around and wrapped his arms around the taller man's neck. His hands trembled with efforts to stay calm, against his urge to wrangle the man's neck. With a forceful tug, he pulled the Dark Lord in for a kiss. His muscles were stiff, but his lips pressed hard and firm against the strangely cool mouth, his eyes squeezed shut to hide the anguish within.

It was just sex. His body for the life of his friends — a perfectly fair deal.

He was already a dirty whore, this was his life now.

 _What's the point of fighting a lost battle?_  Harry gave a mirthless smile, and parted his lips to accept Tom's assaulting tongue.

The warm, eager mouth was probably the only soft thing about Voldemort.

As Voldemort devoured his obsession, a burning hatred grew in his chest.

He hated how Harry insisted on protecting everyone around him. He hated it so much, it morphed into a desire for vengeance.

Why vengeance, you ask?

Because when he needed Harry the most, Harry abandoned him without hesitation. Harry had abandoned him to despair, confusion, and years of loneliness, because he had  _chose_  them over him. How could Harry give his love and protection to those maggots so easily? — When he never gave them to Tom, the little boy who craved his affection more than the world.

He hated them, although he would never admit that the feeling was jealousy rather than a desire for vengeance.

But the past was in the past.

Now, he had accomplished everything he ever dreamed of. And so, he knew Harry would never forgive him— Harry would  _never_  love him. So be it... If Tom couldn't have Harry's heart, then no one could have it at all. It was time for him to let go of his childhood hopes, forgetting all about the past and just indulging in his darkest, sinful fantasies.

Right now, Tom's fantasy was spread out on a large bed in the middle of the room.

With the flick of his wand, bright lights flooded the large bedroom. Normally, Tom preferred to rest in darkness, but, right now, he wanted to see every detail of the event that was to occur, to see the parting of Harry's lips, to see the trembling of his eyelash, to see his expression as Tom took him.

Under the glaring lights, there was no where to hide.

On top of black velvet, Harry's naked body was presented for his enjoyment. All the marks he had left— purple and pink bruises, old and new scars— were visible on the stretched, pale body. They dotted the young man's skin, colourful and raw, appalling in their brutality but also beautiful in their tragedy.

With fervent eyes, Tom observed his master piece. These markings were proof that Harry belonged to him. From the curve of his neck to the insides of his thighs, every inch of him was marked by Tom.

_And by Tom alone._

It might've hurt. Harry must been hurting. And every time Tom hurt the man, Harry would sure to remember him. In a sick and twisted way, Tom felt that it was almost like being loved.

_As they say, there is a thin line between love and hate._

He must've hurt Harry, although the man never complained. Even when the man was at his most vulnerable, he never begged. Even when the man's mind was lost among a sea of pain and pleasure, he never showed weakness in front of Tom. No matter what Tom did to him, he would never ask Tom for mercy or forgiveness. And this guarded stubbornness always made Tom feel insecure —so it only made Tom more angry and cruel. With his desperate and childish plans, with hungry lips and strong hands, he took everything from Harry.

Yet, even their most intimate acts couldn't fulfill the yearning hunger in his lower belly. So he took, more and more, over again and over again. When it came to love and relationship, the normally brilliant and logical Dark Lord acted horribly foolish, as he tied their relationship into an unsolvable knot — trapping them both in a spiralling cycle of endless madness.

Harshly, Tom tore off his robe. Then, without any foreplay, he pressed Harry into the sheets and entered him with one brutal thrust.

He couldn't contain the aching hunger any longer.

Scarlet pupils dilated as hot, tight muscles surrounded his cock. As dark burning lust settled over him, his eyes became less and less human, increasingly snake-like. Beneath him, the sudden pain caused Harry to thrush desperately, whimpering like a dying animal, but his hands were as merciless as nails on a cross, trapping his prize like an offering waiting to be devoured.

Bright lights spilled from the ceiling, so bright that Harry's pale skin seemed to glow beneath red-eyes. So, with patient thrusts, he studied every movement on the young man's face— how he bit his lips until it bled; how his delicate features twisted with pain and despair. For a moment, the handsome lord couldn't breathe, something was twisting his heart painfully. But before he could even identify it as the remnants of guilt, a searing heat rose from his groin like an electric shock, and he become lost in sensations of bodily pleasures and vengeful victories.

Ignoring the faint nagging pain in his chest, Tom lowered his body on to Harry completely. His hips moved faster, harder, as he mined the overwhelming pleasures of the man's body.

Harry  _belonged_  to him.

And he was the only one who could fulfill the needs of this beautiful, wonton creature beneath him. Tom pushed deeper, his cock fitting into Harry's body perfectly.

The more Harry struggled, the more his arse clenched around Tom. Hot sphincter muscles convulsed around the invading object; pain and pleasure came in waves. The dichotomy of want and fight seemed to please the Dark Lord's sadistic nature. He purred. The moist heat was pushing Tom toward a jagged edge, but it also left him wanting more, his mind driven mad with lust.

Harry quivered. His fingers scrambled against the sheets, clutching into fists, knuckles white as he tried to steady himself. He couldn't breathe as Tom rocked him back and forth, in a punishing, relentless rhythm; his mouth gaping like a dying fish; his body curling up like a shrivelling snail.

But the man holding him down never had patience for compassion or romance. Tom pulled out slowly, savouring the friction of convulsing muscles against his cock, before, once again, positioning its round tip against Harry arse.

His cock was thick and throbbing with eagerness, now it was also slick and shiny with Harry's body fluid. Rapt, he looked down at the struggling body beneath him, the pink flushed skin, the grieving green eyes. He wanted Harry to react when he takes him again, so he held the man down against the pillow and nuzzled his head against his chin. Harry's head snapped back, exposing pale, vulnerable throat, which Tom ravaged immediately, biting and licking the smooth skin. When Harry was suitably distracted, he thrust forward suddenly, his cock filling the other completely, until Harry trembled and groaned so prettily.

Without foreplay, without lubricant, Harry felt like a knife was entering him. The sharp pain was unbearable. Tom's hot flesh filled him mercilessly, filling Harry's body and mind until he was drifting away to a sea of darkness and pain and shame.

The pain was burning.

Harry wanted to cry out. But he knew if he opened his mouth, the only sounds that would come out were pathetic sobs. Although he had long since abandoned his honour and pride, he still clung onto the idea of dignity desperately, grasping for a remnant of his old humanity.

So he bit his lips and choked down his sobs.

"Cry for me," the red-eyed man demanded. His body shifted up as he sucked on Harry's earlobe. Skins burned with obscenely high temperature. The man whispered into his ears, sweet and soothing, tempting like a Siren's song, yet his assaulting movements didn't slow.

" _Beg_... Tell me how much it hurts, Harry... and I'll make you feel good."

Harry stared up blankly. Tom's hungry expression filled his vision. The man, whom he had raised from a little boy, stared down at him with mercurial, lustful red-eyes. Those eyes devoured Harry, almost sucking the last bit of his fighting will. As Tom pounded into him, Harry clamped his lips, refusing to make a sound, swallowing his sobs like bitter regrets.

Cruel red-eyes watched broken green ones.

"Since you don't want to  _talk_ ," Tom's red lips curled cruelly. "Then  _look_  at me— at us—"

The Dark Lord, who had locked away his own human emotions using Dark Magic, was finally ready to destroy the last bit of Harry's old identity — his heroism and his pride, and everything that had given his life purpose. While their hips were still connected, he lifted Harry into his arms, pulling the man to an upright position, so they were sitting face-to-face.

Harry was impossibly thin. Gently, Tom's fingers traced the indents of his rib cage, before wandering lower, to where their hips met. Long fingers stroked the pulsing immodest connection, squeezing the sensitive organs playfully, cruelly, as Tom pushed Harry's head down to look at the mess between them.

" _Look_  at us — perfect as one. And see how wet you are getting— "

It was an ugly sight.

Their legs straddling each other, dark pubic hairs wet with transparent bodily fluids, messy and primal with the smell of sweat and sex. Tom's cock was still half inside him, an impressive length with throbbing purple veins. Harry's own arse was pink and raw, and rather pathetic as his inner muscles continued to convulse around Tom uncontrollably, itching even, as more fluid leaked from inside him.

Suddenly, the momentary silence filled Harry's head with shame.

Tom made Harry looked at it until his last remaining dignity crumbled into nothing.

Harry made a choking sound and struggling to get away. But the Dark Lord's hands held firm, bony fingers curled cruelly in Harry's hair, jerking the man forward into his chest. Carefully, he lifted Harry onto his lap, while pushing deeper into him, eliciting a delightful half-scream.

"Yes, yes. You are so, so beautiful...Aren't you, love?"

Then, Tom started to move again, faster, deeper, hips rutting upward, arms pressing around Harry's shoulder. As he savoured the spoils of his victory, Harry remained limb in his arms, like the good little sacrificial lamb he was.

Bright lights rained down from the ceiling. The nagging light stabbed at Harry's pupils.  _It hurts_. It was too bright. Robotically, Harry felt a sting behind his eyeballs. It wasn't until something wet was dripping down his face that Harry realized he was crying.

 _The lights were too bright,_  he thought numbly.

Tears fell silently as Tom ground into him. As their bodies bobbed together, up and down, sweat and tears sloshing from bare skin, dripping on the bed, an endless sorrow drawing wet circles on soft duvet.

Even though the man was the source of his sorrow, even though he had previously demanded for Harry to cry, suddenly, Tom's demeanour changed. His movements slowed, his caresses turned gentle.

With a hot and rough tongue, he licked the tears from Harry's chin. Warm lips pressed soothing kisses into Harry's cheeks. Harry didn't know if this was another of Tom's lies, but, in that moment, he allowed himself to believe that Tom did care.

With tenderness that was so unlike the Dark Lord, a voice whispered into his ear, " _Don't cry_."

If Tom was a better man, he would've felt a twinge of guilt as hot tears slipped down his fingertips. But... as it was, he could only feel a possessive hunger burning in his loins.

Again, Tom pushed Harry down onto the soft bed, strong hands restricting. He lifted the man's long, pale legs over his shoulder, and pushed inside at once. His cock assaulted that moist, hot territory, again and again, in and out, until he found the right spot to make Harry cry out, as sensitive muscles shuddered and clamped around his manhood.

"Feels good, hmm?" Tom hit the spot again, panting heavily. He cupped Harry's face, laying soft kisses on pink cheeks, on soft lips. He waited patiently for Harry to relax, before pushing forward once again, deep and penetrating.

This time, they cried out together.

If Tom wanted to, he always could make Harry unravel like this. As Tom thrust into him in slow, deliberate movements, gradually, the pain dissipated into greedy heat, until, before he realized it, Harry became lost in deep heat and sensual pleasures. As they moved together, a comforting darkness swallowed Harry whole. In the end, the saviour had succumbed to pain, to lust, to  _Tom_.

Tom loved seeing Harry like this— the man's long legs lifted up in his arms, exposing his most valuable position for Tom to take.  _So helpless. So innocent_. It made his cock swell just watching the man, whom he had coveted since childhood, submit to him, Harry trembling beneath Tom's thrust, Tom swallowing him whole.

Uncontrollable violence and desires— that was him. And Harry was his curse and his blessing,  _his_  for all eternity.

Tom went insane as he thrust into Harry. He straddled Harry as he fucked him, hands tightening, mouth biting. He fucked him into the bed; he fucked him on the floor; he fucked him in the bathroom, on the counter, in front of the mirror, against the wall, until everywhere was tainted by their sinful acts.

The smell of sex and come filled the air, erotic and primal and sweet like the taste of Harry's skin. Tom fucked him until Harry clung back in equal desperation, their bodies writhing together in perfect harmony, giving off an illusion, however brief, that Harry was his willing lover. Their breathing was short and heavy, their moans low and rumbling, Harry's with pain and Tom's with pleasure.

For a moment, all the Dark Lord's cold, calculating intellect fell away, and he became a beast in heat. He spilled his seeds into Harry, again and again, filling him, claiming him, imaging his own essence taking root and growing inside the man's body.

* * *

Five months later, Harry stared at his slightly bloated belly in horror; eyes burning in rage, ears still ringing from the shock of the doctor's diagnosis. Grasping at Tom's collar, he screamed desperately, "WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?"

"Ha, my dear—" The Dark Lord gently pushed his hands away. He smirked, a triumphant and adoring expression on his handsome face. "You are pregnant with our child. You and me _forever_ connected by blood — bring new life into the world. Wonderful news, isn't it? I have planned for this for so long—"

"I thought you love children?"

"Our own child— Miraculous, isn't?"

The man's mockingly sweet tone rang in Harry's ears, making the world spin.

No, it wasn't miraculous — it was unnatural... He was a man. He was Harry Potter. He couldn't be carrying the child of his mortal enemy — the man whom he dreamed of killing ever since he was an eleven years old boy.

Seventy years ago, he had prayed for the safe birth of every child — every child except for the one named Tom Riddle. Seventy years later, history had repeated itself. He still prayed for the safe birth of every child — every child except for the one that grows in his own body.

The birth of a child should a joyous event. It should be the pinnacle of two people's love for each other, the miracle of life nurtured from love. Yet, a child born of purely selfish reasons, to be used as a tool— such a child would only be doomed to a lifetime of loneliness and pain, of longing and darkness and burning rage.

He didn't want to bring such a child into the world. _A child with circumstances just like the Dark Lord's own._

"Get rid of it," Harry hissed. His face was frail and pale, his hand trembled where it rested on his stomach, but his tone was defiant still, and it made the Dark Lord's eyes dim dangerously.

With bony fingers, Tom captured Harry's chin in a suffocating grasp. He tilted the man's face upward to meet his own scarlet eyes, red like the sea of blood that followed him everywhere.

"My dear— My sweet, little, imprisoned slave— You are in no position to make demands, anymore—"

* * *

**March 2004**

As expected, a child was born into this world. He was born without love, without fanfare, without a large family crowding around the hospital bed, cooing at his tiny face. A new life was always a blank slate, grey, without any inclinations for dark or light, as he belonged to neither or to both. And from the beginning, this one was born into loneliness.

His father only spared him a courtesy glance, before handing him off to some Death Eater waiting by. He turned and strode into a white room, where a strong smell of blood still lingered, and climbed onto a large bed. A pale young man was lying on the bed, slender limbs and eyebrows furrowed in discomfort, as still as a broken doll. He might be unconscious or asleep, so he didn't stir when he was tugged into demanding arms. Like a needy child, the Dark Lord wrapped himself in the man's arms and, for a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in the illusion of peace and happiness.

The newborn's other father was in deep sleep, drifting in pain and suffering that were too deep to be visible. His green eyes were squeezed shut, eyebrows knotted, as if trying to lock out the world — with all its sadness and injustice— and lock out the son he never wanted.

So the child grew up, ignored by them both. His green eyes were like the most precious emeralds, bright and clear and hopeful, just like his father's once was.

"Daddy, daddy! Why won't you hug me?" The three-year-old asked, clutching at his father's leg.

The man, who was once the Chosen One, had no answer for him. Instead, he walked away. The exceptionally intelligent little boy chased after him, pumping his chubby little legs as fast as he can. He ran, then wobbled and fell over, but he didn't cry. Instead, he grabbed onto the man's leg again, clingy and insecure like a baby monkey. He was so alike that dark-haired orphan from long ago, searching for love and acceptance in a hopeless, cruel world.

Just like Harry, the child didn't know when to give up.

"Daddy, please!" He pleaded.

The boy's sharp pleads stabbed at Harry's heart. He looked down at the little boy with delicately-curved features so similar to a young Tom Riddle. Harry trembled. Every time he looked at the child, he was reminded of all the shame and guilt of his failures.

The boy sobbed quietly, his snuffles broken up by words of longing and stubbornness.

"But... Scorpius' dad loves him and hugs him... Why don't you love me?"

The child's soft cries were heart-breaking. Harry couldn't keep his resolve; he couldn't ignore the little boy who needed him.

The man, who kept running away from reality, was not the real Harry Potter.

No matter how he tried to act cold and detached, in Harry's heart, he was still the silly, bright-eyed boy who longed for love and a family of his own.

"Don't... Don't cry, my... my son," he stuttered as he knelt down next to the child.

As he looked into the familiar face so similar to Tom's, Harry felt conflicted, nervous. With stiff arms, he reached out to the boy. He hesitated, green eyes haunted by the past, before wrapping the boy in a tight embrace. The child trembled in his arms, just like little Tom did once upon a time.

" _Daddy_ —" the boy's sobs grew quieter. His face buried safely in the curve of his father's neck. Contently, he closed his large green eyes, and hid a flash of menacing scarlet that expanded inside his pupils.

* * *

 TN:

Again, I apologize to the author for the quality of this translation. Ugh... this is beyond the scope of my knowledge. The accuracy of this chapter... I tried.

Again, this one-shot has NO relevance to the larger story. 

P.s. That was way too hard. (T_T) .o0O@


End file.
